The Time Traveler and the Yellow Hat
by The Solitary Sandpiper
Summary: In which Harry Potter goes back to when he was eleven, and attends Hogwarts once more. Though this time, he's a lot less sane. Is that good? Bad? Nobody really knows; critical thinking is for Muggles. Insane!Harry. Insane!Everyone. Not your usual time-travel fic.


_I do not own Harry Potter; I do own a yellow hat._

* * *

Fred and George Weasley, of Number 93, Diagon Alley, had invented their first trick wand at the age of thirteen. Of course, it didn't actually _work_ , not as a real wand, but it got the job done. Pick it up, Fred would say. Cheap. Affordable. Give it a wave. See the wand. See the chicken. Have a laugh.

People did. People laughed. The business grew.

When Fred and George were fifteen, they managed to create a trick wand that was reusable. One wave and it was a chicken. Five seconds later, _poof_ , and it was a wand. Chicken. Wand. Chicken. Wand.

Needless to say, this upgraded wand was an even bigger hit than the first. Fred and George attracted national attention. They gained financial backers.

One of them was Harry Potter.

Harry gave them his Triwizard Winnings after the Tournament. One thousand gold galleons. Plus a little bronze knut, which had managed to slip in unnoticed. Technically half of the money was Cedric's, but since Cedric was indisposed (i.e., murdered), that left it up to Harry to invest as wisely as possible. He did. The Weasley business expanded like wildfire. It made the morning edition of _The Prophet_.

The Weasleys bought a joke-shop. Diagon Alley. The big leagues. They stocked it well, with trick wands, yes, but also with Skiving Snackboxes. Canary Creams. Decoy Detonators. The works. It worked.

Soon, the Weasleys had an international network of trade. Soon, they were celebrities. Soon, they weren't just in the wizarding world.

It started when a Muggle child named Chester found a Canary Cream in a trashcan.

"Mummy, look, a cookie!"

"That's nice, dear." Mummy didn't like Chester.

"Mummy, in a trashcan!"

"Good for you, dear." Mummy was watching the telly.

"Mummy, in my mouth!"

"Hmm..."

"Goodbye, Mummy!"

And that was all the warning Mummy got. One second, Chester was eating a cookie. Next, Chester was a canary. Feathers and all! Chester never turned back. Some of those Weasley spells are _strong_.

Well, of course that didn't go over well with Daddy. Or with the authorities. Or...well, with anyone, really, except for the local Peregrine Falcon, which saw Chester as a nice evening snack.

But that's another story.

* * *

The Muggle lawyers got involved. They tracked down the creators of the Canary Creams by following a trail of crumbs. (A literal trail. No joke.) Then the wizard officials got involved. The Aurors. The Department of Law Enforcement.

On Fred and George's side, of course. They were international Wizarding celebrities, remember? They wouldn't be allowed to _fall_ , right?

All of the press did wonders for Fred and George's business. The wizards thought it was funny, you see; Muggle baiting was a thing, it had always been a thing, and now, with Canary Creams, you could do it from a distance. Give a Muggle a cookie, and then… _poof_.

The falcons of London had never been fatter.

But Fred and George-poor Fred and George-they felt bad. Seriously bad.

No. They felt _horrible_. They hadn't meant to hurt that poor boy. Or any of the other Muggles. That Canary Cream trick...they had thought it was funny. But now that everyone was laughing...the humor was lost.

Canary Creams had come back to haunt them.

So Fred and George searched the shelves of their shop, searched the long lists of their order forms, and removed anything that could possibly be dangerous. Anything at all. Love potions? Hadn't those resulted in the birth of Lord Voldemort? Skiving Snackboxes? Hadn't those caused the death of the Minister of Magic? Constipation Candies? Wasn't that why Dumbledore was still in the bathroom?

They removed it all.

What did they have left? Seriously, what did they have left?

Their original prank, of course: trick wands.

Trick wands weren't dangerous, Fred and George thought. Trick wands were fine. At their worst, they were just another stick. Or another chicken. And really, since when had either of those been bad?

Unfortunately, while this campaign for public safety did wonders for Fred and George's consciences, it _didn't_ go over so well with the rest of the public. Trick wands were cool, yes. But a shop with _only_ trick wands? Well, they tended to get a bit old...and why buy multiple trick wands? Why not just one? Maybe two?

Business began to decline.

What to do, what to do? Fred and George spent many weeks cooped up in their old bedroom at the Burrow. They hoped it would give them inspiration.

And one day, inspiration came.

"Fred!"

"George!"

"I—"

"Just had a great idea!"

"Ye—"

"S!"

The great idea?

More trick wands. But not just _any_ trick wands- _better_ trick wands. With colors and lights and all sorts of novelties…

So Fred worked. And George worked.

And worked.

Pretty soon, their old bedroom was filled with the smell of sulfur. Also, it was filled with wands. Big wands. Little wands. Long wands. Short wands. Also, a number of wands that Fred and George weren't _quite_ sure about, except that they knew the wands weren't dangerous. That they knew.

They knew! And they smiled all the more because of it.

After all, they were achieving their dreams.

* * *

It was around this time that Mrs. Weasley got tired of Fred and George living in their old bedroom. After all, was it really healthy for them to be all cooped up in there for so long?

Yet the Weasley twins wouldn't listen.

"We're almost done, mum," they told Mrs. Weasley, when she came knocking.

She left. But soon enough, she was back, this time with Arthur.

"We're almost done, dad," the twins said. "Seriously."

Weeks passed. The Weasley parents started to get worried.

Mrs. Weasley mentioned Fred and George over dinner, while Arthur played with his battery collection.

"Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley, "I really think that _something_ must be done about those boys!"

"Oh...yes...I agree…"

The batteries moved across the tabletop. Bump. Bump.

Sparks flew.

"Arthur," Mrs. Weasley repeated. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Umm…" Arthur played some more with his batteries. He put two of them together, and there was a small explosion. The dining room table was reduced to ash. Arthur looked up at his wife. "The boys?"

"Seriously, Arthur." Molly waved her wand, and the batteries disappeared, but not the ash. "Don't you think that we should do something?"

"Well, what can we do?" Arthur rubbed his balding head. "Fred and George are upset after that whole 'Muggle Baiting' fiasco. They're still working through it. Plus, boys will be boys, you know…"

"Boys will be boys? Arthur, they're sixty-five!"

Arthur shrugged. "So? Wizards live a long time."

"Not long enough," said Mrs. Weasley. "And if they don't come out of that room, they're going to die from lack of sunlight!"

"Is that even possible?" asked Arthur. He waved his wand, and made new batteries appear. "Regardless, I'm pretty sure the lack of water will kill them first. It has been three years, after all."

"They have their wands. They know how to do _Aguamenti_."

Arthur laughed, "Seriously, Molly. You do realize that spell doesn't produce _real_ water, right?"

"Oh."

Arthur went back to playing with his batteries.

After a minute, Mrs. Weasley drew herself up to her full height, which wasn't very impressive, so she stood on a stool. She steeled herself. "Arthur Weasley," she said, and _jabbed_ him in the chest with her wand. "You do something about those boys, or so God help me, I will kill you!" She was shaking. Her wand gave off little, rainbow colored sparks.

Well, _that_ got Arthur motivated. He even stopped playing with his batteries-for a minute or two, at least.

But where _did_ one turn, in a situation like this?

Arthur thought. He thought and thought, and then he hit upon an idea, an absolutely brilliant idea, one so great that he couldn't believe he hadn't considered it before. He'd just have to speak with—

* * *

"Hello, Mr. Weasley." Harry Potter, vanquisher of Lord Voldemort, chief of the Auror department, and grandfather to thirty-five children, had arrived. His black hair sparked with electricity. His scar stood out above sparkling green eyes. And his feet, clad in red rubber boots, stepped softly across the Burrow threshold.

"Harry, are those my Wellington boots?"

"I hope you don't mind." Harry smiled apologetically. "They were sitting by your front step, and, well, things are not going well for me these days. Seriously, have a look at my old boots." Harry rummaged in his pocket, and pulled out a single, bloody shoelace. "And they were basically like this when I got them. You see?"

Arthur did.

Harry scanned the room. His eyes took in the ashy state of the kitchen, and he smiled knowingly. "Playing with the batteries again, Mr. Weasley?" he asked. When Arthur nodded, Harry laughed. "Good to know that some things never change."

"Yes, it most certainly is! How _are_ you, Harry?" That was Mrs. Weasley, coming up to give Harry a hug. But Harry took a step forwards, and rolled beneath the outstretched arms, rolled across the floor, and kept rolling until he entered the fireplace. He stood. He dusted himself off.

"No offense, Mrs. Weasley, but I have an aversion to hugs. Always have."

"Well, it's good to see you, Harry, regardless."

"That it is!" Harry smiled briefly, though it was hard to see, given how his head was stuck up a chimney. "Care to show me the twins?"

"Of course, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said graciously. "Arthur, would you…"

"Follow me!"

* * *

"So." Harry stepped inside the twins' bedroom, shut the door. "Hello, Fred, George."

"Hey, Harry," they chorused, from where they were hunched over a desk, surrounded by piles and piles of fake wands. "How's it hanging?"

Harry made his way over to their sides, stepping carefully. "Not so great, guys," Harry told them bluntly. "Your mother tried to hug me, your father is currently playing with 100V batteries, and I just spent sixty seconds with my head up a chimney." He took a breath, "Basically, the world's gone to shit."

"We—"

"-know."

Harry looked at them grimly. "Well then, you know why you have to come out of this room." He pulled out his wand, and twirled it through his fingers. "Don't make me spell you."

"Harry, we appreciate your concern, but—"

"-we're almost done."

"I don't give a crap about that, guys. Word on the street is that you haven't drunk water in three years."

"That—"

"-might be accurate."

"But still—"

"-we're not coming out until we've finished."

Harry eyed them curiously. "What are you guys doing in here, anyways? I mean, really? You can't just be making trick wands, those went out of style years ago."

"We're not." Fred and George grinned, and gestured him closer. "See this?" They pointed to a long black stick on the table. "Do you know what it is?"

"Umm...a wand?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Fred impatiently, "but what _else_?"

Harry shrugged. "A trick wand?"

"Yes, but—"

"Fred." George waved his twin silent. "Why don't we just show him?"

"Sure, Fred. Sure thing."

Fred and George took out their wands-the only real wands in the room, Harry assumed, aside from his own.

There was a puff of feathers, as Fred conjured an owl.

"Okay…"

George motioned for Harry to take a step back. "See the black wand, Harry? Keep your eye on it."

Harry did, while, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fred levitating the owl. "What am I supposed to be seeing, guys?"

"Just watch, Harry," they instructed. "Just...watch…"

The owl moved closer to the wand. Closer and closer.

Was it Harry's imagination, or was the room starting to get darker? And why did the edges of the owl seem so-blurry?

"Um, guys?"

The owl moved closer.

"Guys…"

But Fred and George were so concentrated on their task that they couldn't hear. They couldn't hear _anything_ —

For a second, George seemed to flash in place, and Harry saw a different George shimmering before him, a George with a dusty face, and with a bloody hole where his ear used to be—

"Guys! Shut it off!"

Harry waved his wand. There was a flash of light, and then—

Laughter. Fred and George were laughing at him. Laughing at Harry.

"You should have seen—" said Fred, gasping.

"Your face—" cried George, holding his sides.

Harry groaned. "Seriously, guys. Was that necessary?"

Fred grinned. "Necessary? As necessary as a good prank always is!"

"Fine. Okay." Harry pushed hair out of his eyes. He found that he was sweating. "Can we go now?"

"Sure thing," said Fred. "Oh, Harry. You dropped your wand."

"Did I?" said Harry, absently. Together, he, Fred, and George looked to where it had fallen, atop a pile of other wands. "Better get that." He scratched his chin, then he picked up his wand.

Funny, it was heavier than he remembered.

Heavier?

Fred and George look terrified. "Harry, that's—"

Harry didn't have much time for thinking. _Oh, shit_.

Light flashed. Thunder boomed. The wind howled.

The Burrow caught on fire, and burned to the ground.

When the flames were finally tamed with some water from Mrs. Weasley's wand, it was to find Fred and George crouching among the rubble, covered in dust and ash and who knew what else. They kept croaking the same two words, over and over again...

"Harry—"

"Potter—"

It was a warning, but it had come far, far too late.

* * *

 _So...it begins! Do me a favor and leave a review, so I know what you all think!_


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